


Vermintide: The End Times Cometh

by naco36



Category: Vermintide 2, Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Brutality, Dark Fantasy, Deception, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gun Violence, High Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Lies, Personal Growth, Possible Character Death, Psychological Trauma, Romantic Fluff, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 15:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21448330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naco36/pseuds/naco36
Summary: It is the year 2523 of the I.C, the memories of Ubersreik still fresh in their minds, but now they take on the horrors of Helmgart. They will not do so without help, however, they may find it...heretical to even consider accepting its aid. It's seen the worst of it all, its mind still gripped with the terror of its ancient history, but perhaps it'll find light in this grim, dark world...?
Relationships: Kerillian (WHF)/Markus Kruber, OC/OC, Sienna Fuegonasus/Victor Saltzpyre
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Thank You!

** _Thank You_ **

* * *

Before I start this...project. I just want to say thank you to everyone who, well, supported me throughout the stages of my story. Albeit, even though it’s only been a couple of months since I’ve written on it, I feel like I can do better. But I feel like most of my gratitude goes to Emmanuel. 

Why? Well, he was with me every step of the way, proof-reading chapters, checking my spelling and grammar, just being an... awesome guy. And I can’t express that gratitude enough. So, Emmanuel? I just want to thank you for just tolerating me every day and dealing with my laziness and just plain-out absurdity, but this has gone on long enough. It’s time, for  _ Vermintide  _ to make a come-back, and hopefully, this time around...it lasts longer than eight months. 

But…with that being said…

I hereby present,  ** _Vermintide: The End Times Cometh_ ** .

(I do not own Fatshark, and or Games Workshop. This is purely hypothetical and not at all canon. All rights reserved.)


	2. The Beginning of The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He awakens to his usual scenery, his usual commode. 
> 
> It always ends the same, and no matter how many times he relives it, he is always left shattered at the end.
> 
> No.  
Matter.  
What.

#  **The Beginning of The End**

* * *

**“If you do this, you will ** ** _forfeit_ ** ** everything you have gained, and lose the respect of many.” **

“I understand.” 

**“Every race, every living being in all of the realms will look down on you and ** ** _bring torment_ ** ** to the rest of your existence for this decision.” **

“I understand.” 

**“Do you swear by the god that you believe in, that you will** ** _ never break_ ** ** this ever-binding oath, to abide by the unspoken rules that may concern it.” **

“Yes.” 

**“And to ** ** _uphold_ ** ** the ** ** _responsibilities_ ** ** that may come with it?” **

“Yes.” 

**“You understand that once you agree to this binding, you will be forever tormented by the beings of all of the realms and that your mortal life shall forever be a ** ** _living hell_ ** **, until your last breath?” **

“Yes.” 

**“In short, once you swear upon this oath, you will** ** _ lose everything_ ** **.” **

“So be it.”

* * *

His eyes opened slowly, continuing to stare at the ceiling of the room he had rented just a few weeks ago. His dark red, beady eyes examining every inch of the ceiling, it became obvious the owner did not bother to support it, as there were obvious cracks and mold growing upon the wood. 

He groggily got up from his “comfortable” bed, which really was a stone slab with a blanket made from cheap fabric. As he rose from his slumber, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror that laid in the corner of the room, the glass being cracked, distorted his appearance, but even then, it was obvious what he was. 

Over his life, his pitch-black fur had become faded, becoming a lighter black, his paws armed with dull claws that barely became exposed. His physique was that of a well-built man, if not more, his height was jarring for most humanoid races, more so in his race. 

But the most jarring of his features were the elongated, furless tail that trailed behind him, and his rat-like light brown snout, filled with sharp vermin-like teeth, with black whiskers surrounding his mahogany brown nose. 

As much as he thought himself different from his race, it was hard to say that to the paranoid races of the realms. He lumbered over to the dresser in the corner of the room, taking out ragged apparel consisting of a large brown tunic, and tan pants.

Both seemed to have experienced a bit of stretching from his size and continued to don them onto himself and snatching an overly large hooded cloak from a coat rack beside the dresser and covered his verminous body from any watchful eyes. 

In the pockets of the pants were some studded leather gloves, which he used to hide his hands from any concerned parties, though it did not accommodate his claws, he worked with what he had.

Ready to go forth and pay his rent, he almost forgot the most crucial part of his impeccable disguise, his best impression of a human face, with a strap to keep it in place during...certain situations. 

The disguise was not meant to fool anyone for a long time, as the mask could really only work when it was on the top of its snout, what was fortunate was that the hood of the cloak was large enough to conceal his face up to the mask. And as he latched the mask onto his face, he instinctively picked up a brown oak box, as large as a medium-sized dog. The box itself was of an uncomplicated design, with a latch to open it, and a sling to carry it around more easily. He put it over his shoulder, but under his cloak to conceal it. 

Now, he was fully prepared to leave his humble abode. He walked over to the door, and twisted the knob, only for it to break off instantly, clattering against the wooden flooring. 

He nearly ripped the door off its hinges in frustration, but wisely decided that was a horrible decision. Instead, he fit his overly large paws into the hole where the knob was, and forced the knob on the other side outwards, causing the door to creak outwards, just like the knob. 

As the basement of the inn was revealed to him via his night vision, it certainly was not in the best of condition, with mold and filth gathering in several of the corners, and several other doors much like his that probably led to the same room he slept in. Ignoring this, he quickly found the spiral staircase leading to the surface and continued his journey. 

As he made it to the top of the staircase, a mass of bright lights blinded him for a moment, even with his sight diminished, he could hear the shuffle of footsteps, and what he assumed was...a laugh? 

“You never change, do you?” 

It did not take long for his eyesight to come back, seeing the hardwood counter with a large ledger to keep track of finances, and inhabitants. On the walls hanged various lanterns, the causes of his blindness, but nonetheless, he slowly lumbered over to the counter to pay his dues. Although he considered it to be...demeaning. 

“Good-” 

He paused for a second, looking out one of the windows in the inn, quickly acknowledging that it was in fact, daytime. A rare occurrence, as he usually only wakes up around midnight. 

“Morning, ser Stein.” 

“Gods, you look more horrible than ever.” 

He softly groaned at the observation, taking out a pair of copper shillings from his pockets and begrudgingly handing them over to Stein. 

“Just take it and let me leave already.” 

“Today’s on the house, Robert, you look like you need ‘em more than I do.” 

It took Gnawdwell a few moments to realize the alias he had given the innkeeper was Robert, and nothing else, though Stein didn’t seem too keen on trying to find out his last name. 

Gnawdwell hesitantly, and awkwardly, retracted his hand, putting the shillings back into his pockets. Behind his mask, he squinted his dark red eyes, trying to find out Stein’s scheme, staring deep into his eyes with the mask’s never-moving pupils. 

“...What...What are you doing?” 

“...Thank you.” 

Gnawdwell stared at him even after the exchange was done, continuing to stare until he finally left the inn, leaving behind a very confused innkeeper. As he stepped out of the inn, he saw that he had woken up during one of the busiest days of the week, at least, for Helmgart. 

Festag, in simple terms, is a weekly holiday in which no work nor trade shall be done, only feasting and celebrating! Though this reflects on the power of the local ruler, and the influence of the clergy. Gnawdwell disregarded it as…not complete nonsense.

Helmgart was a city built in between two mountain ridges, acting as a chokepoint for most travelers, merchants and more. Houses, shop keeps and more, with streets paved with cobblestone, supplying a rustic look to it all. Giant walls surrounded the land where the mountains did not cover it, giant stone towers armed with various weaponry made to shield the city from any…peculiar events. Though none of them surely concerned Gnawdwell.

The streets were crowded with an incessant talk of celebration and feasting that irritated him, something about all the...joy reminded him of something he used to feel. And he hated it, the laughter, the constant gossiping felt as if sandpaper had been forced underneath his skin, the sudden resurrection of memories flooded his vision, threatening to overtake him again. 

The black rat tried to wade through the sea of humanity, ignoring the vast amounts of grown men acting like infants, drinking until they had gorged themselves full. 

Though there was not just constant intoxication, some have taken to throwing great parties with diverse arrays of food and piñatas filled with assortments of delicious treats. He saw boys with wooden swords pretending as if they knights, trying to win the favor of the childish princesses before them. 

He felt something strike him in the thigh, though it did not seem to be a strong blow, nor did it is someone with murderous intent. A rare trait to not have when fighting, a trait a small child would not have. He shifted his gaze at his small, yet unknown attacker, wielding a small wooden sword and a massive grin on his face.

The boy wore small scraps of wood painted to look as if it was made of steel, well, that’s what Gnawdwell assumed at least. The child giggled as he continued his weak assault on the disguised black rat, and he could not help but grin behind that mask. 

He knelt, facing the child for a maximum for a few seconds, staring deep into his dark blue eyes which were illuminated with joy and purity and then turning away, his mask being unable to make any physical expressions at all.

“What glorious knight of the Empire has decided that I am considered worthy for his steel blade, little one?”

He played along, ignoring the various crowded masses gathering around him, singing and dancing throughout the street, while he spoke to a small boy in the middle of all the commotion.

“Sir William! Sigma’s honored knight!”

He allowed himself a faint smile as ‘William’ spoke, continuing his masquerade of…’joy’.

“Oh really? Why is William Sigma’s ‘greatest knight?”

He played along with the child’s mispronunciation of Sigmar, the slayer of orcs, and the patron god and founder of the great Empire of Man, praised by most humans.

“Because I slew a dragon by myself!”

“Ohoho, did you really? You must be _ extraordinarily strong _, and your sword must be of legend!”

The boy nodded in elation; pure joy irradiating off him. If he had to be honest, it made him sick, thus began the search for an excuse to leave. An idea came to him, and fortunately for him, a cart filled to the brim with sacks of apples slowly passed by. He silently nicked a single apple from the cart, simultaneously pulling out a few copper shillings out of his pockets, clumping both the apple and the currency in one palm.

“Would this be enough to take it off your hands, little one?”

The boy’s smile faded, his face scrunching up, pondering on the deal. William looked up at Gnawdwell, staring at his mask’s never-moving pupils as he slowly accepted the disguised rat’s deal, and then running off with a larger grin on his face than before. Gnawdwell stuffed the toy-like blade underneath his cloak. It could be useful later.

The black rat then went ahead to go where he usually drowned out the constant, annoying chatter, and his own emotions, walking among the overly crowded streets. Finally arriving at the only place that he could tolerate these filthy humans.

The Blue Moon Tavern.

* * *

Being careful not to draw too much attention to himself, he kept most of his greetings quiet, wave at several of the patrons, who may or may not be inebriated. Or he completely ignored them. Gnawdwell found no use in describing things of little importance, why should he? Sitting down at his usual spot, which was at the counter, and once he was there, he greeted the bartender and owner of The Blue Moon.

The tavern, much unlike the insanity happening out in the streets, was quiet and peaceful, almost serene. Oak wooden tables were meticulously organized with several chairs of the same wood, and the final addition was a lit candle resting in the middle of each table.

A nice set of shelves stashed away behind the counter, which Gnawdwell knew held only some of the best ale in all Reikland. A soft aroma of ale filled the tavern, bringing a hint of ease to Gnawdwell.

“Morning _ Robert _. The usual?”

“That’d be great, Franz.”

The black rat gave Franz a glance with the stillness of the mask eye’s, before looking away and staring at a random wall. As he waited for Franz to come back, his mind started to wander, viewing joyous memories and traditions he **used **to love.

He allowed himself to relax, leaving himself **vulnerable**. As seconds became minutes, he started to hear whispering, chittering. He had wandered too far into his memories, and now he had to pay the price. He didn’t have time to feel dread, no time at all.

** _ TRAITOR._ **

Ringing. A piercing ringing echoed outward inside his mind, paralyzing him with absolute **terror** , he could hear his loud, thumping heart pleading for **mercy** , as it soon beated slower and slower, as if **death ** was embracing him in its grasps. No longer did he see cherished memories, no longer did he vividly dream about going back to how his **life **was before everything.

The only thing he could see is his **failures**.

His **misdeeds** . Everything he’d done **wrong**.

** _WARLORD_ ** _ . _

He felt cold, like a corpse, his body becoming completely numb, succumbing to his **traitorous **acts, yet refusing to accept his fate.

** _TYRANT._ **

He hesitantly gazed around the room to see the same old patrons, only to realize they were all drilling their gaze into him, wearing faces of the ones he used to command and order around.

His hands started trembling underneath the safe confines of the cloak, eventually dragging themselves onto Gnawdwell’s eyes, hiding the vivid reminders before him.

He could not breathe, or could he? He did not know anymore, his lungs felt like they were being constricted with chains, now not only did his hands tremble, but he himself couldn’t hold the **fear**, **terror **and **despair **back any longer, the voice in his head finally uttered the finals word that had doomed him to this never-ending torture…this living **hell**.

**_OATHBREAKER._**

He couldn’t hold his **despair **anymore, tears flowing down from his dark red, beady eyes and onto his hands. Unimaginable **pain **erupted in the confines of his mind, he tried to wail in **agony**, but no sound came forth from his mouth, letting the voices constantly torment him with repetitions of what was said before.

He was brought back to reality when Franz slammed his tankard on the counter, disrupting the nightmare-scape that was constructed by his own unwillingly **terrified **mind.

“Here ya go, _Robert_.”

It took him a few moments to adjust to the now normal tavern, his head still hurt from the ringing and the voices insults, albeit it pained him less now than before. His hands shakenly dug out the last remaining shillings he had and onto the counter, barely enough to pay for the drink. Franz accepted it and left the disguised rat to his own devices.

Gnawdwell still trembled from his episode, sliding up his mask over his forehead and adjusting his hood to better hide his face, his hands hesitating before finally grabbing the tankard and drinking away the pain.

It was the only thing that could help suppress the dark, poisonous thoughts that waited for him to be **vulnerable**. That waited for him to be **weak**. 

All he knew, in this moment, in this very point in time…is that…

**He was alone.**


	3. They Came From Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His kind resided patiently beneath the border-city, their filthy incisors chittering in the deep, dank tunnels underneath. They came and came they did. 
> 
> A weary mercenary is loose from his cage, determined to find his comrades.
> 
> The blackfur has already claimed a life today, though he feels as if he took two.

#  **They Came From Below**

* * *

Chittering filled the vast underground network of tunnels that spread below the great city of Helmgart, where **His** kind resided patiently.

The vermin waited for the call to war, no, for the call to slaughter the surface-dwellers above, their victims unaware of their existence. The vast regiments of unorganized rats eagerly expected for the sounds of the horn, for its ear-piercing call to be heard throughout the tunnels and up to the surface to terrify the surface-dwellers.

They all clutched their blades, flails, polearms and shields, their fur bristling with excitement, their shoddy armor shining in the warm, yet volatile green lanterns stringed along the tunnels.

The horn’s thunderous call reverberated through the underground and up to the city, an eerily silence occupied afterward, the foul and filthy rat men hordes all smiled, displaying their horribly discolored and malformed incisors.

And then…

**They came from below.**

The explosion was so sudden, so out of place, it almost seemed…unreal. But the heat and knockback of it did not. The Black Moon Inn erupted in a cascade of wooden splinters and stone debris, the ruins quickly being filled with a green noxious, vaporous gas known as Poison Wind, a form of chemical warfare carefully constructed by only the immoral and vilest of minds among the vermin that hid below. A cacophony of screams, war cries and chanting filled the once quiet inn, the vermin killing the patrons one by one, dragging them into the horde only to be devoured by the sea of rats.

* * *

Gnawdwell felt oddly weak as if he couldn’t move because of some unknown force. The black rat slowly realized that Ranald truly despised, as the god of luck had damned him again, in the form of a ceiling board pinning him against the ground. The stool he used to sit on was now nothing but a pile of wooden splinters penetrating his very flesh, the counter itself being in much of the same situation.

He barely felt the crushing pressure of the ceiling resting on his broken spine, the splinters of the stool piercing his chest, it did not matter to him, at least, not now. He could feel the endless tide of vermin scamper across the debris that laid on him, he could hear their never-ending laughter as they slaughtered the citizens of Helmgart. The tables, chairs and shelves were thrown everywhere, nothing was left uncorrupted by the vermin’s touch. Fortunately for him, the ceiling that continued to crush his ever-weakening body seemed to hide him from the horde, though he couldn’t really tell if that was for the best.

He felt his mind faltering, his consciousness eluding him. The black rat spied the streams of rat men continuing to flow into the streets of the border-city, slaughtering any who dare get in their way, and capturing any that surrendered, a fate worse than anything one can think of. Gnawdwell searched the inn for any signs of Franz, despite his limited line of sight. If anyone could make it out of this, it would be him. The blackfur was no stranger to death, feeling its cold grasp tighten around his mind. He let out a small, silent chuckle, as his injuries proved too much for him, finally accepting his death…

**Once again.**

* * *

**“**Argh, Taal’s teeth…”

Opening his wary eyes proved difficult for the weary mercenary, Markus Kruber, but once he did, he wished he could just pretend he didn’t see what had been revealed. The mercenary stood in a cage fit for a man, with several chains dangling outside of its bars, Markus realizing that the cage was being lifted by the steel chains, leading him somewhere far more sinister.

“Ouff, am I seeing this...?”

Markus mumbled to himself as the great, ginormous cavern revealed itself, with arrays of strange machinery and decrepit shacks and ruins hanged off the walls of the expansive rat lair, strange green lanterns sporadically supplying light in the darkness.

The mercenary’s cage led into a shambled-together building, wooden planks hastily fastened down onto the weak infrastructure of it all, but what truly held his attention was the infernal device sitting in the middle of the cavern, chains with giant steel bells wrapped around them, giant tubes leading off into the great abyss at the bottom, several pylons that emitted great power was nestled in the giant circular contraption.

“Behold, most esteemed, mighty and monumentally cruel pact-fiend Ribspreader!”

Markus’s attention snapped to the timid, yet arrogant voice, his cage suddenly stopping right behind a set of two men and rat men. The mercenary kept his mouth shut, for it could save his life.

One of the men was a tower clad in full-plate armor, with ornamental horns on his helm and skulls scattered around his great bulk, displaying his barbaric savagery, and finally, he wielded a giant two-handed axe made to split open skulls.

The other man was of questionable weight, his rolls of fat and blubber providing a delightful home for the buboes and infections spread around his body, clutching a staff decorated with skulls and made from infected wood.

The two rats could not be any more different, one was white-furred with a horned helm encrusted upon its own horns, wearing blue-white robes, whilst the other was about as tall, if not larger than the man in full-plate, armor covered nearly inch of his body.

It’s black-fur gleamed, a halberd resting on its back with its set of trophies placed upon a rack the black-fur carried around. If they shared one thing in common, it was their shift, dark red beady eyes, uneasing Markus more so than the two gentlemen. The giant device shuddered; green lightning spewed forth from its pylons as they extended to the center and doing the impossible.

_By Taal…_

The contraption sent forth jets of magical energy throughout the cavern, shaking it to its very core, until the deed was done. The pylons retracted, allowing the gargantuan green portal to expand, a drawbridge was quickly set down upon the edges of the device.

“The Skittergate one again work-works, with our combined forces- “

_Not this bloody thing again!_

Before the white-rat could continue its wretched speech, the Skittergate, a contraption crafted by the rat men to **teleport** vast scores of warriors across the world, shook and trembled as the force of the portal between regions was too powerful for it to contain, powerful green lightning shooting across the cavern, destroying everything they dared touch. The tower of full plate was quick to reprimand its ‘ally’.

“WHAT? You have failed us! Again! Puny rat, you swore the gate was ready!”

“My most humblest and devout apologies, fearsome and brutal Champion- “

“Bah, more sniveling!! Fix the gate, I have hordes of Rotbloods waiting, ravenous for slaughter!”

_Rotbloods...? Oh, for Taal’s sake...!_

Rotbloods, cultists devoted to the Allfather of disease and infection, Nurgle. The mercenary was quickly be able to piece together this critical piece of information, though it didn’t prove hard because of one certain overweight gentleman, whose infectious buboes riddled his layers of fat. Markus’s cage unexpectedly started moving again, the constant barrage of green lightning shaking the entire underground made it quite difficult for the lift to properly transport him, once again stopping, but this time over a small wooden unkept shack.

“No-no! The warp oscillator, where is fool-weak Warlock?!”

A giant stream of lightning shot towards the mercenary’s cage, causing the assortment of chains to snap and break, leading to the chains, well, dropping the cage.

“Whaaaa!”

The man-sized prison broke through several layers of wooden planks of the shack, finally meetings it match on a man’s head and the stone flooring. The cage exploded into splinters of wood and steel, allowing the old mercenary to move around freely, despite feeling quite exhausted. Though it could have gone worse for him, as clear by the man crushed beneath layers of wood and steel.

_Take that, you right ol’ bastard…_

The mercenary let out a small chuckle at the Rotblood’s death, it wasn’t every day you kill a man with a roof. Overall, he felt…abnormally good despite being kidnapped by vile and heretical rat men, and then he spied a great, wooden mallet resting in front of the Rotblood’s corpse.

“You don’t need that one anymore, mate…”

Markus spoke to himself as he grasped a hold of the weapon. It wasn’t exactly his most preferred quality of armament, but he had to make do with what he had. Speaking of which, Markus glanced around the room for any signs of a mirror to see how horribly the rat men have treated his glorious mustache. The room itself was used for storage and nothing else, several barrels and crates nestled around each corner of the room, until he spied what he was looking for; a mirror.

Markus was not a behemoth when it came to size or strength, but that didn’t mean he was not a hardened warrior. Most of his garment stayed the same, his giant black hat with a feather added into the mix displayed a sense of pride and courage, at least to him. A giant red ribbon wrapped around his body clad in several plates and scraps of metal, finishing at his waist in a neat knot. His checkered black and grey pants were a tad filthy, though his knee and footguard were still there, the metal shining in the various lanterns around the room.

_Huh, guess the rat men were more merciful this time around._

The mercenary chuckled to himself, certain that they _could_ not feel anything besides fear and hatred. And the occasionally terrifying laughter, though he wouldn’t consider it to be joy. Armed with his sense of style and weapon, Kruber marched forth to his freedom, until he was interrupted by a rat wearing nothing but rags and armed with a simple dagger, appearing from out of nowhere.

Unfortunately, rags and a poorly made dagger were no match for Markus’s mallet. The rat could barely let out a scream of terror as its head was smashed in by the mercenary’s overhead slam.

“Oooh, I’ve been waiting for this!”

Kruber had spent too much of his time locked away in his prison but feeling the satisfying crunch of the rat men’s skull was…well, satisfying. He looked down at the dead, vile cadaver, almost admiring his work, before being interrupted by a strange, yet familiar voice…

“I’m almost _impressed_ Kruber…armed and free already! Just when I was going to help you out of that cage too…”

The mercenary spent a few seconds glancing around the room he was now in, the surroundings looking much like a tunnel, with another leading deeper into the rat men’s lair. Naturally, he went the only way he could, nonchalantly ignoring the various assortments of bones piled around the tunnel and absentmindedly talking to the disembodied voice, he doubted the old hag could hear him anyway with her ears.

“Olesya?”

Markus received a swift reply from Olesya, an old witch and _friend_ he met back in the city of Ubersreik. Even the name made sent out waves of shock down his spine, some memories didn’t need to be remembered.

“Yes, yes it’s me. I’m here to help you escape, and with the Skittergate shaking up this blasted place, the time is now…”

While the old hag spoke, Markus marched forth around the tunnels, bludgeoning and caving in rat men skulls to achieve his goal; freedom.

“Alright, but-”

Olesya cut off the weary soldier quicker than a rat could scream.

“You were on your way to being sacrificed, so you can thank me later. Now go, find the others! I have work to do…”

“No, wait! Olesya? Hello?! Dammit…”

The mercenary barely had enough time to stop before plunging into the pit below, his heels miraculously being able to keep him on the edge of the cliff.

_Taal’s teeth!_

The pit below was decorated with several trophy heads impaled on stakes, and other rotted viscera scattered around the pit arena. Several corpses littered the ground of it, some of the bodies seemed fresh, as if the pit had been used mere moments before Markus had arrived.

With a heaving sigh, the mercenary looking further into the pit arena, and not to his surprise, found a large, decryptid door just waiting to be opened! Unfortunately, he knew it was also a trap, a predictable one too…

Albeit, he did enjoy the occasional victory from the rat men, he just wished they would come up with new ways to…well, challenge him! Markus let out a long, exhausted sigh, preparing himself for what was to come, jumping off the cliff he stood on only to land into the arena, his bloodied mallet thirsting for blood.

* * *

From the ruins of The Blue Moon, he rose, knocking away the ceiling that had toppled over him when his ‘brethren’ attacked, his back screaming in agony, begging, pleading him not to take any other action, but rest. He obviously refused to listen to his dying body and continued onwards.

His cloak dragged across the cold, dead pavement as he wandered the streets, the box under it rattling as he walked, the vermin ignoring his existence entirely in favor of frenzied genocide, but something else had caught his attention.

His eyes begun witnessing the horrors brought on upon the border city. Great, large green flames consumed those still able to scream, and those able to flee were hunted down by the loathsome rat men, their incisors gnashing the bones of the fallen, be it ally or foe.

This brutality, the spread of such ruin, the spread of such decay… as much as he wished to distance himself from it, he felt intertwined with the sights of destruction. He was familiar with this display of ruin, the constant need to spread…decay. His concealing mask sheened as the raging flames consumed anything that it touched, even the stonework melted in its path.

He managed to tear his gaze away from the flames, the vermin’s manic laughter filling the air as they slaughtered and murdered for their own muse, the cloaked blackfur managed to slink away into an alley that had not felt the corruption of his brethren, as of yet.

Gnawdwell already knew what was going to transpire, he had experienced and survived it many times before, even now he could hear their claws scrape against the rooftops, their poisons dripping from the tips of their blades. He was ready and waiting as he disappeared into the dark, starry night, prepared for his Eshin brethren.

Out of his sight, out of his perceiving, all knowing eyes, a patrol of vermin had halted in their tracks, the large cloaked figure catching the attention of their red, beady eyes…the plates on their bodies clanked as they marched towards Gnawdwell, with halberds in hand, and blades and boards in others, they readied themselves to ambush the cloaked blackfur…

Entering the depths of the alleyway, Gnawdwell stepped into and across the weeping ground, the obvious of signs scarring the walls. They were caked in blood, claw marks, and powder burns. Several boxes were littered around the alleyway, some untouched, some demolished to such a point it seemed ridiculous to even call it anything.

Delving deeper into the battle-scarred alley, his heart stopped, halting him before a familiar corpse.

While several other corpses littered the alleyway, sometimes obstructing his advance, this one…reminded him of someone he had met mere…hours ago, or so he thought.

It clicked in his mind, his fragile, yet hardened mind. The child’s face, his clothing, the very same dark blue eyes he stared into what seemed like mere moments ago. Even in death, the child’s eyes remained vibrant and pure, something so scarce and sought after in the Old World.

His gloved hands drifted to the boy’s face, lovingly caressing the now pale skin, which proved to be cold to the touch. Gnawdwell hesitated, before finally allowing himself to remove his mask, and solemnly lay it on the child’s lap, allowing the small child to see his true identity, who…he really was.

The blackfur smiled at his own small gesture of…respect, one could say, despite feeling a tang of pain deep within his heart. With one sudden motion, he placed two of his fingers on the boy’s eyelids, and slowly closed them, granting him a more peaceful death.

From his guilt wrought eyes, a single, lonely tear fell onto the mask on William’s lap. He remembered how it felt to lose **everything**. To feel so **worthless**.

Soon, tears flowed forth from his eyes, his quiet sobs threatening to bring him another death. But he couldn’t stop, seeing the young boy like this…even if it wasn’t his own…it brought back **memories **of long ago. Suppressed emotion erupted forth from the blackfur, the fur surrounding his eyes becoming matted and damp from his tears, his sobs only growing louder as he continued to stare at the dead William.

He once **felt** like this before, something that ruined him, something that ruined his entire life in one single day. Calming himself, it was only now that he realized that the child was being clutched by a woman, gripping the dead child closer to her, staring into Gnawdwell’s eyes in complete, unflinching terror, stains of blood covering her clothing and dirt smothering her face.

She was wounded. The blackfur could tell this much, egregious scars covered her arms and face, and a single, gaping slash on her chest. He couldn’t carry her, lest she die in the process, nor could he treat her wounds. They were just too many an injury; she would die of blood loss by the time he could get they got to safety.

There was only one thing he could give her in this moment. She would be reunited with her son, a merciful death.

His gloved hands slowly made their way towards her neck, his fingers wrapping around her throat, and forming an iron grip in an instant. Her eyes widened in terror, and fear of death, like a young doe.

The deed was done. It may have been wrong, but the blackfur knew what it was like. To see the ones you loved die, to see your entire life fall apart before your very eyes.

**He knew what it was like to lose**.

But he had no time to mourn, no time at all.

He should’ve been more careful.


	4. One Down, Four to Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not real. It can't be real. He doesn't want it to be real.
> 
> He doesn't wish to relive his past.
> 
> He doesn't wish to relive that day.

#  **One Down, Four to Go**

* * *

“…And ratling cannon-guns to decimate-kill regiments of man-things!” The small rat-scribe, a brown furred rat dressed in scholar attire with glasses far too large and too short for his snout, described these so-called ‘Ratling Gunners’, a further experimental and unreliable version of the Ratling Gun, a six-barreled rotary hand-held contraption, hooked up to a ginormous, bulky barrel of ammunition with a crank unnervingly popping out of one of the flat sides of the barrel.

The death machine is usually manned by two clan rats with enough firearms training, or are suicidal enough to handle the thing, one carrying and aiming the six-barreled monstrosity, the other clutching the barrel of ammo, cranking wildly. When cranked, it lets loose a hail strum of bullets, coining the term, “Ratling Gun.”

A single team could eviscerate entire patrols, which is if it doesn’t malfunction in the process, but like all rat men technology, and themselves, it is faulty, unreliable and of shoddy quality.

The rat-scribe halted in its describing of the innovative technology, sensing that the Warlord was more interested with action, not hollow words. As the scribe pondered on its next course of action, the Warlord fidgeted with the holster on the side of his waist, where a darkish brown flintlock pistol rested, both its barrel and handle being inscribed with foul runes in the shapes of triangles and such, a vile tint of green decorating the edges of them, his dark red armor sheened in the dim light above them, bearing insignias of some kind.

“P-perhaps-maybe a demonstration-show of w-weapon-things? Make-craft display of power-strength?”

How he hated the guttural, repetitious way his kin spoke, their constant stuttering and repeating of words made him want to blow out their feeble minds all over the cavern walls and feed what’s left of them to the ogres. Though he doubted the rat-scribe ever used his brain. The Warlord began to manically snicker at his joke, before being brought back to reality by the scent of the rat-scribe’s musk of fear, a trait that all his kind had, the ability to smell fear.

“Well? Get on with it, scribeslave, before I find other uses for your visit...”

“Yes-yes, O’ Powerfullest of Warlords…”

The rat-scribe muttered several curses underneath its breath, before signaling to its comrades to bring forth the new-fangled contraption, constructed by only the vilest and sanity-deprived minds of the rat men.

Much to the blackfur’s surprise, a single rat appeared down below, only looking up at the two standing upon a precipice inside the inconspicuous cavern, several paths leading down to the bottom level of the empty cave. After earning the honor of being glared at by the large blackfur, the rat got to work on proving the lethality of the brand-new gun. The single rat carried the same cumbersome barrel as any team would, except for the fact it was strapped onto its back, the cracks in the barrel oozing a poisonous, green light.

A lengthy bandolier extended from a side of the barrel, linking up with a hand-held six-barreled rotary death machine. Instead of the usual crank being placed on the ammunition barrel, it was moved to a side of the new Ratling Gun. The rat-scribe patiently waited for the blackfur’s permission to continue.

“…Interesting…proceed, before I redecorate this cavern in your blood.”

The rat-scribe flinched at the threat, its face contorting in an expression of fear as it signals a small regiment of ratslaves, representing the very meaning of ‘expendable’.

The most basic of infantry, the slaves act as the cannon fodder of the lines of the rat men, the only armaments they wield are shoddily made weapons, and a single loincloth concealing their rathood. The only advantage the slaves have in grueling combat is their numbers, numbers so vast and large, they are beyond counting.

In total, a dozen ratslaves huddled together, each one holding up a metal shield against the one-manned Ratling Gunner. The Warlord eyed the gun-rat suspiciously, though his suspicion is quickly swayed when the gunner cranks the foul machine, the ratslaves clutching their shields, being offered no escape as several large black furs closed off their escape, blocking the pathways with their plated bodies and halberds.

“F-FOR THE HORNED RAT!”

A lengthy, sinister grin crept onto The Warlord’s face, the noises of the crank turning the gears of the gun and the smell of the gunpowder fuming from the barrel pleasured his ears and sense of smell, a spray of bright green tracers sprouting from the six-barrels of the gun, decimating the ratslaves, even with their quite defensible formation and equipment, every time a shield was hit, pieces of metal shards would fall off.

Such rapid-fire rendered their protection useless, as the slaves try to flee from the gunner, the only sounds they hear before death takes them is the maniacal laughter of the Ratling. The Warlord’s grin persisted even after the Ratling stopped it’s fun, the cavern becoming void of any sound besides the grunts of the plated black furs, as they began to clean up the massacred slaves.

The Warlord’s grin persisted even after the rat’s gun fell silent, the cavern becoming void of any sound besides the grunts of the plated blackfurs, as they began to clean up what was left behind by the foul machination.

“You are emissaries from Clan Skryre, correct?”

His nose twitched at how strong the scribe’s musk of fear had become throughout their…”talk”. The rat visibly flinched when the Warlord had asked his question, despite how desperate it tried to hide it.

“Y-yes, of course, W-Warlord Gnawdwell…! W-We come-seek you far-long distance, all the way-paths- “

In itself, the lie was meaningless. It didn’t affect Gnawdwell directly, and the innovative technology the rat-scribe had shown him became clear that they were deadly. No longer would he need to field teams, a single rat could do the job of two! But in this **society**, reputation is everything, so if news had spread throughout the Under-Cities that he had spared a rat that dared to lie to him, a rat that dared to spit out a false truth in front of him…

Behind the Warlord and rat-scribe was a large opening in the cavern, narrow and sleek despite the jagged walls surrounding it. From there, Gnawdwell could see his mighty soldiers, the best of the best, troops that he had trained himself in both warfare and politics, their expressions contorting into wicked grins, expectantly staring at the Warlord. That was all the reason he needed to do what he had to do.

The cavern was brought to life by the scribe’s screaming, quickly becoming gurgling as the Warlord strangled the rat, a light click emitting from his waist where his holster laid. Gnawdwell made good on his mental threat, the only sound erupting from the cavern was a single discharge of a firearm, and then…**silence**.

* * *

Flashes. Indiscernible images flashed across his mind, joggling and halting his train of thought. Screams, paralyzing and terrifying screams mingled with an orchestra of mad laughter, the sickening sounds of bones cracking, and flesh being ripped and torn apart with spouts of blood to go with the wounds. Blades clashed, the sounds of metal striking one another thrummed the air, like the rhythm of beating drums. Their eyes, their red beady eyes kept appearing in the haunting images, the more he stared at them, the more he could sense the malevolence of his past catching up to him, threatening to drag him down into the depths of who he was before.

But even then, that paled in comparison to what the visions showed him next. Even in this state, he could feel tears fill his eyes, and stream down his cheeks, what was he supposed to have done? He tried, he tried for once in his worthless, miserable life! He tried to save them, he truly did, but they did not care for attempts. Only outcomes. Just as quickly as he was shown the consequences of his actions, they were ripped away from him, not even giving him the chance to grieve. The blackfur was thrown back into the fray of battle, the images and memories surrounding him and beating him down, furthering his mind into the abyss.

The last thing he saw was the very thing he had grown to despise but was once the greatest comfort to him long ago. The face’s eyes…the sheen of them only strung a sensitive chord in his heart, bringing forth pain that no physical or magically attack could match. Her beautiful, sheening amber eyes, her hair as spritely gold as the flowers they once laid upon…her smile…her damned smile.

Pain. Grief. Regret. And loss was all he could feel, registering nothing else but her smile. Who knew something so comforting could be so painful to look at? It felt as if his heart was being crushed in a vice, until finally…

**He awoke**.

* * *

The soldier incapacitated the giant, heaving marauder, and brought down his mallet onto the foul heretic’s skull, making a loud crack as the pit became silent, several bodies littered the arena, both consisting for rotbloods and the loathsome rat men.

_By Taal…weren’t skaven enough? Now we’ve Rotbloods to bloody deal with!_

Recovering from the small-scale battle, Markus continued forth, occasionally dispatching a few vermin, not long before starting hearing a familiar…tune and song amid combat, despite how trivial it might be.

“Wrath and vengeance, grudge and strife, we march into the afterlife!”

The weary soldier looked up towards the ceiling of the small cavern room, seeing a peculiar contraption moving a cage along, with a certain dwarf in the cage. Kruber allowed himself a little smile, grateful that despite everything that’s happened, Bardin stays the same.

“If it ain’t Goreksson, guess I found me first one, eh?”

“Azumgi! Haha, get me out of this raki cage! It stinks more than me grandmother in here!”

“Alright, alright, you already know I wouldn’t leave without you, Bardin.”

Even after the cage holding Bardin had disappeared into the cavern wall, courtesy of the contraption that worked much like an elevator platform, Kruber could still hear his singing voice ignoring the depth of the walls.

“Bloody hell.”

The soldier followed the trail of the…wood? He assumed it was a path, but it was just so thrown together, but expected of skaven ingenuity.

The pathway ended at, yet another drop down into a pit, which seemed to lead further into the expansive rat lair. Kruber considered the dangers of dropping down without thinking, but hopped down anyway, confident that no rat shall best him in combat!

Dropping down revealed a very narrow, shoddily made bridge of wood, with a half dozen naked rat slaves on it. They all wielded daggers that were much like the bridge’s quality, and their non-existent armor only made them more susceptible to death.

Eyeing up the oblivious slaves, Kruber noticed a large, blackfur at the end of the bridge, several plates of armor decorating its body with foul symbols and insignias inscribed and drawn upon them. Not only was its body armored, but its head as well, a curved piece of sharp metal extending off the nose of the helmet, appearing like a horn on the rat’s head.

_Bloody stormvermin, pompous ol’ bastards._

Utilizing the element of surprise, Kruber readied himself, and charged down the bridge, all the while swinging his mallet wildly into the ranks of the screaming slaves, easily dispatching them all in a few strokes. The slaves proved no match for an Imperial soldier, their deaths being as meaningless as they were alive.

“AHAHA! FOOLISH MAN-THING! SLAVES ONLY-LIVE DISTRACT!”

Kruber was barely able to raise his mallet to meet the stormvermin’s halberd, the blade of it shattering the handle of the soldier’s weapon, though Markus was able to easily turn the tables on his foe. The mercenary sent the halberd straight into a crack in the wooden bridge, embedding the blade into the dirt below. The blackfur barely had time to scream as Markus brought down his one-handed mallet on its skull, easily shattering both armor and bone.

The soldier gave his war mallet a small wave, cleaning the blood off its flat edges. At least, most of them. Once that was done, Kruber marched forth, further bashing away more wooden planks that dared to impede his warpath. He marched into a room, with several wooden crates and boxes scattered around in the corners, some were disturbed, and some were as clean as they could be…for rat men, at least.

Though, he noticed several torches scattered around on some of the wooden pillars this time around, illuminating his surroundings a fair bit, enabling him to notice a small bow placed upon a barrel next to him, and a crate filled to the brim with gunpowder punches and pellets, along with several arrows and quivers. This caused a minute grin on the mercenary’s face.

_She never disappoints, does she?_

Arming himself with the bow, he nocked one of the arrows into his newly acquired form of attack, and once he looked to the other side of the room, he found a rather large opening in a wooden wall that looked like if it was trying to poorly imitate a window, along with another wooden gate, that worked much like the last one.

_Oh, bugg-_

Markus rapidly ducked under the window in a state of panic, right before the eyes of a clan rat had catched him standing in the room. His breathing calmed, using his training to prepare himself. In a flash, Kruber sprang up from his cover, his brain barely being able to register the powder barrel in the middle of the room the clanrat was in and letting loose his shot.

“It’s a man-thin-“

The war-like cry of the clan rat was cut short by the explosion sending its dismembered corpse through the window.

Markus could hear several other voices in the room, screaming and wailing in agony as they slowly rallied themselves together, and opening the wooden gate that had previously stopped Kruber’s advance. Taking advantage of their surprise, the old soldier nocked an arrow and let his skill do the rest. His hands gracefully and swiftly nocked another arrow as soon as he let loose another, finding a delightful home in a skaven’s skull.

One after another they came, Markus had begun to worry that he wouldn’t have enough arrows for so many rats, their bodies almost forming a small blockade at the gate. Fortunately, as he let loose his second to last arrow, the thunderous footsteps of the horde had receded, most likely because he had killed them all!

_You’d think they’re…well, become smarter or something._

It was painful to even let his gaze near the mound, a horrible example of military training. If even one of them had any common sense, they would’ve swarmed him from both the window and the gate! But alas, the loathsome rats need a form of leader to work properly. Once he removed the bodies, with extreme caution of course, he made his way through the gate and into the room he had left scarred, several scorch marks appearing everywhere of the room, even on the ceiling of all places!

But…now that he had inspected the room more closely, he saw two points of origin for the explosion, and a collapsed wooden pillar that held up a floor. He had gotten lucky with that second barrel, but perhaps he might have also trapped himself in here.

“It’ll be fine…I think.”

Addressing the problems of the structural integrity was the first problem, the second however, was the method of escape.

That one was gladly answered for him, in the shape of a shoddy ladder leading upwards. He let out an exhausted sign when he saw it was the same floor, he made structurally weak. He had no time to complain however, ascending the ladder in a hurried fashion. Kruber did not wish to stand upon a platform made by skaven hands, who knows what kind of fallacies it could hold?!

Miraculously, Markus was able to climb said ladder and walk upon the flooring with no issues, several torches implanted into the stone and dirt below him as he had made it back into a seemingly natural cave, several green lanterns accompanying the yellow, soft light the torches produced.

It was a contrast of the two light sources, one so malignantly evil and corruptive, the other a beacon of hope and a guidance in even the darkest of times. The mercenary decided to snatch up one of the beacons of hope, the torch illuminating his mallet and the plates on his body, the reflection of his still glorious mustache smiling back at him. He had no time for vanity, however, regaining his focus to the task at hand!

“What in Taal’s name?!”

The torch that he had thought was a guidance, only revealed the fact that an ogre sized man, decked out in full spiked plates was now charging at him with a great axe the size of two men! He barely had time to prepare himself, the chaos warrior’s roar shaking the wooden ceiling above him, causing something unexpected to happen.

The chaos warrior’s guttural, savage roar had caused the ceiling to collapse on itself, Kruber could hear the snaps of bone and crunching of flesh as the monster was brought down by skaven hands.

”Taal…I must be one lucky bugger today, wouldn’t you say, chaos warrior?”

The mercenary laughed the encounter off, twirling his mustache in mockery of the chaos warrior, a man who had devoted his life training himself in the service for the chaos gods, only to die of a ceiling! Ha! It was enough to bring a man to tears! Calming himself down, he saw that the ceiling had supplied an opening for the soldier, acting like stairs into another room. He must be blessed to have such an exorbitant amount of luck.

Scaling the makeshift stairs and dodging some unnerving skull racks with some ruins and debris sprinkled in, his boots scraping the wooden flooring beneath him, it was evident that this was not made to traverse through. Despite this, he was able to make do with it all, eventually arriving at yet another drop with no going back. He wasn’t sure if he was going the correct way, but his suspicions were dismissed no sooner than he thought of them.

“Win her hands with songs of old…Gromril steel and hoard of gold!”

He covered his mouth and laughed into it, masking his pleasure to have Bardin singing. He leaped down, his landing making a soft thud on the dirt below. The mercenary saw a glimpse of Bardin as he passed by in his dinky cage being carried by the chain, joyous to see the dwarf was still alive, despite his singing.

“Bardin! Keep a lid on it, alright?”

Markus whipped around, noticing another tunnel barricaded by more planks, and swiftly removed them with a single stroke of his mallet, as he descended deeper and appeared below the contraption that carried Bardin. The dwarf was dangling in the air in front of Markus in an elevated position over another wooden ceiling. Kruber noticed the wooden flaps that the cage was expectantly waiting to open and took advantage of the time he had.

“There you are, Azumgi! Down and to the right, Move those long legs of yours!”

Heeding Goreksson’s advice, Kruber moved downwards, passing by a few more skulls, turned to the right and found a contraption similar to how portcullis’s would be used. A chain was wrapped around the center of it, with a small crank on the left side of it.

“Now give that a good whack for me, Azumgi!”

Markus brought down his hammer onto the chains, easily shattering them into metals scraps and bits, Bardin’s cage plummeting down into the wooden ceiling, splinters and wooden planks flying everywhere because of the sudden impact.

“Blimey!”

The old soldier rushed down to Bardin, cautiously jumping off onto the wooden ceiling, which withstood his landing, and dropped down into the hole the dwarf’s cage had made.

“Not so rough next time, Azumgi…you’ve fair cracked me head open!”

Kruber took in the sight of the dwarf on his knees, the shattered metal cage left in nothing but tatters of what it used to be, along with some of the ceiling being left around the cage.

“Heh, ungrateful bugger, aren’t you?”

Bardin let out a chuckle, rising from his cage, and began dusting himself off and attempted to polish his dirty helmet, it seemed like the dwarf exaggerated the extent of his injuries, just like he does his tales.

“Well, are you at least ready to kill your way out of here?”

Once the dwarf was done, he looked up to Markus with a toothy grin, his axe in hand, and eager for battle, the soldier giving him a grin in return.

“Hah! You manlings and your stupid questions!”


End file.
